


Christmas Snow

by keyboardclicks



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Christmas Angst, M/M, Soooo much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyboardclicks/pseuds/keyboardclicks





	Christmas Snow

It was the heaviest snowfall Eric had ever seen in London in all the time he had lived there. The area was usually more accustomed to rain than it was snow, but this year the entire city was blanketed in the stuff. It stuck to Eric’s pant legs and boots as he trudged through, hands stuffed in the pockets of his peacoat, head down to keep his face from the wind. Despite how cold and uncomfortable it could make him, though, Eric loved the snow. He loved the snow because Alan loved the snow, and whatever mood he was in seeing the white stuff falling always put a smile on his face.

Eric often wished he could control the weather, just so he could make it snow whenever Alan was upset. He’d give anything to see Alan’s face light up like it did when snow began to fall.

There were very few people on the streets that day; Eric supposed that made sense, seeing as it was Christmas day and everybody was inside, taking care of their loved ones. Eric himself was on the way to spend time with the one he loved, and Alan would be waiting for him where he always was.

Past the wrought-iron gates and through the snowdrifts, Eric trudged a path he knew so well. He walked until he saw where Alan was, waiting, just like always. The snow kicked up with each step, soaking through his pants and shoes. His feet were cold and wet, but it didn’t matter.

Eric kneeled down, reaching a gloved hand forward to wipe the snow away from the gravestone, dusting off the frost that covered the inscription on its front. Eric was silent; he had never been very good at this.

“Hey, Alan,” he finally said. “Awful pretty today, huh? More snow than I know what to do with.” He managed a chuckle, though the sound was raw and dry, and again he was left not knowing what to say.

Suddenly, and as if a great idea had struck him, Eric reached into an inner pocket of his coat, producing a bunch of small, purple flowers. They were a bit messed up from traveling on the inside of Eric’s coat, but all in all they were still rather nice.

“Picked these for you,” he said, holding them up with a grin. “Found them on the way here; they’re your favorite kind, right? The winter kind? They’re an awfully pretty color.” Gingerly, he set the flowers down. Their weight barely made the snow fall beneath them.

It was quiet, save for the wind howling around Eric as he knelt there in front of the grave. He tried his best to make the one-sided conversation, but the longer he sat there the harder it became. He hadn’t visited in too long; he had been hiding away for too long, afraid of the Dispatch finding him but unable to go far away where he would be safe. This was where Alan was; this was where Alan was going to stay, and Eric just couldn’t leave him.

“It’s bloody cold out here, Alan,” Eric almost laughed, no longer kneeling in front of the grave but instead sitting with his back against it. The ericas were on his lap, and the snow falling around him. Eric’s chest felt heavy; he felt tired, and cold, and lonely. He had felt that way for a very, very long time.

“Is there an afterlife for blokes like us, or is what we’re in already the afterlife?” Eric wondered aloud. “If there is something after this I bet you got the best someone could get, Alan. One of the greatest people anyone could ever meet…” His stare was vacant, looking off into the distance which was only a mountain of white. With one hand, Eric summoned a scythe to himself; not his regular scythe, but a small one, one used for training and by new recruits. He played with it in his hand for a few moments.

“And then there’s me… heh… then there’s me… A bloke with nearly a thousand stolen souls locked up inside of him, on the run from his own kind, to be captured and contained on sight…” He sighed. “And worst of all is that I’ve got nobody to live for anymore, do I? Only one who doesn’t want me dead is you, an’, well, I think we can both see where that doesn’t help a whole lot.”

The wind howled, sending snow flying into Eric’s face. It was a sharp sting as the cold snow melted on Eric’s warm cheek. Enraptured with the scythe in his hand, though, Eric hardly seemed to notice. Nothing felt real to him anymore; it hadn’t since Alan had died. Nothing hurt or stung; there was no warmth or pleasantries to touch. Things Eric had once enjoyed had no meaning; music was just sound, books just meaningless jumbles of words.

“If I see you again after this, don’t get mad with me, okay? I know that it ain’t what you’d want me to do but… I mean what other choice do I have? Get caught by the Dispatch? I’d end up killed there, anyway, and like hell if I’m gonna keep running forever. This is… well, it’s really the only option.”

He raised the blade, looking at his reflection within. He looked terrible, and that was saying it kindly. He was far past scruffy, skin looked pale and sickly, and the weight he had lost showed in his sallow cheeks. Eric couldn’t even bring himself to look into his own eyes; they were dull, almost dead looking, as if he were looking at a picture of a reap. Any light that had once been within them was extinguished, snuffed out by the same breeze that took away Alan. It was funny how that worked.

“I dunno if I mentioned it before, Alan, but it’s Christmas. Guess you knew that already, though. Think of this like my gift, alright? I do this, and everyone gets what they want; Spears gets me dead, you get me by your side, and I…” The sigh he gave was heavy and deep. “I get my one-thousandth, meaningless soul. Everyone wins.”

He raised the small scythe, resting it below his left shoulder. The tip was so sharp that it poked through his coat and shirt with no problem, pricing the skin beneath. Eric took a breath, his last breath, before closing his eyes and whispering, “Happy Christmas, Alan.”

All it took was one, practiced stroke, and everything was silent again.

~*~*~*~

Eric Slingby’s body was discovered not even a day later by a passing reaper. William soon came out to investigate the scene, finding Eric’s body resting against a grave. It was a rather new headstone, and although he did not look, Will knew the name that he would see upon it once the body was moved.

“Should we… dig up the body?” asked the reaper William had brought along for help.

“No,” was the eventual decision. “Alan Humphries deserved a proper burial, and that is what he received, even if it is in the realm of the living. We should not disturb him.”

The other reaper nodded. “...Those flowers on Slingby’s lap… what are they?”

It was difficult to tell, as the snow had done a good job of covering them up. Will knelt, brushing the snow off to reveal them. “They’re heather,” he said, “also known as ericas. Humphries was known to have a particular fondness for them. It seems Slingby brought a final parting gift.”

Again, the other reaper simply nodded, toeing at the small bit of blood-stained snow to avoid looking at the body. It was rather gruesome, with the scythe still lodged in the dead reaper’s chest and the hand gripping its handle. It must have been difficult, not to mention painful, but Slingby’s face showed no sign of struggle or pain. It appeared he had no second thoughts about what he did.

“Come. We have to take the body back to our realm before any humans see it. I suspect he still holds the stolen souls within him. I doubt retrieving them will be a pleasant experience.”

Snapped from his trance, the reaper returned to helping his boss. The ericas were removed from Slingby’s lap and placed against the gravestone.   
When all had disappeared, and only the grave and the flowers were left, a wind blew. It disturbed the snow, which flurried around the grave. It disturbed the flowers, and their petals did the same. When the wind died down once again, Alan Humphries grave was covered in sparkling snow and small purple petals.


End file.
